


Arcturus Dark: Transgalactic Privateer

by Malebron



Category: Original Work
Genre: Aliens, Science Fiction, Space Battles, Space Flight, Space Pirates
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-09
Updated: 2016-01-09
Packaged: 2018-05-12 21:13:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,027
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5680954
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Malebron/pseuds/Malebron
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Having lost his ship and everything he wasn't wearing, in a disastrously misjudged skirmish at the outer edges of the Corcoba asteroid belt, Arcturus Dark: Transgalactic Privateer, needs a new ship, a crew and a plan . . .</p><p>A lighthearted story, not to be taken too seriously :)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Arcturus Dark: Transgalactic Privateer

**Author's Note:**

> A/N; this developed from a vague idea I had when I was writing my fanfic, 'Harry Potter and the Eversion of Magic'. At the moment, it is just what it says – a ‘pilot episode’. I have an idea of where it might go, and it will be a mystery adventure, but presently only the first two chapters are written. I won’t be posting any more until the rest of the story is drafted, which won’t be any time soon. Nevertheless, I hope it’s an entertaining little read and engaging enough that you would like to see more. It’s packed with references and not intended to be taken too seriously.
> 
> Thanks for reading. I’d love to know what you think J

 

 

** Chapter One: Pilot Episode **

In the second freight terminal of Neo Orcadis, the largest of three moons that orbited a gas giant at the outer edge of the Corcoba system, the Company privateer, the _Midas,_ disgorged its triumphant crew and single, unhappy passenger.

Divested of everything but the clothes and weapons he was wearing and the _POL1_ personal surveillance drone that hummed and twittered a little over a hands-breadth from his left ear, Arcturus Dark was maintaining the nearest he could get to a semblance of dignity. He had already resigned himself to the fact that he would have to grovel and beg to be assigned a new ship, but the prospect of doing so depressed him.

Trailing dejectedly off the _Midas_ behind the rest of the crew, he passed several Company mechbots waiting to unload the contents of the cargo hold, and stopped for a few moments on the swaying gangway.  Swallowing faint nausea, he regained his balance in the unfamiliar gravity and loosened his headscarf, pulling the corner over his mouth against the shock of the cold, gritty air. Behind him, great blocks of ice crashed noisily from the hold of a Corcoban freighter into colossal storage tanks below. 

From the high vantage point of the dock, he could see away beyond the outskirts of the port to where the moon’s surface was a flat and barren expanse of purple desert. Here and there, the spiked cores of extinct volcanoes were thrown into sharp relief by the unforgiving star that burned overhead. He looked over to his right, to the Vulgann-run scrapyard that crusted like a malignant scab at the edge of the port and wished he had not. For there, propped up on great blocks of volcanic rock was the unmistakable form of the _Syrene,_ her elegant silhouette already crawling with mechbots as she was dismantled. Arcturus experienced a painful tightness in his chest that he was belatedly surprised to recognise as grief. She had been a good little ship, the S _yrene_ ; fast and smart with clean lines. His eyes smarted and he rubbed them, cursing the fine dust that drifted in the constant wind.

.

Arcturus Dark measured his age as twenty-seven Terran years, or thereabouts – although he had, of course, never been to Terra; it being the most expensive and exclusive resort in the known universe; reserved for the use of the chief executives of the great trading companies, elected members of the Federation and hereditary politicians. He had never kept a Terran calendar either, and relied on his mother to keep him informed of impending birthdays. But he thought he was twenty-seven. Or maybe twenty-eight.

.

The only port – indeed, the only settlement – on Neo Orcadis had been established some forty or so Terran years previously, soon after the discovery of extensive reserves of valuable cartaginium ore in the Corcoba asteroid belt. It had a breathable atmosphere, adequate gravity and a relatively stable temperature that ranged from very cold to absolute cold. It contained no natural dihydrogen monoxide, but ice was so plentiful in the asteroid belt, this did not constitute any more of an inconvenience than was found on most Company outposts. The port had been built by, and for, the Honourable Interstellar Trading Company – sometimes known as HITCo, though more commonly as ‘The Company’; but over the decades, the dingy outskirts had spread and grown, expanding past the original Company service infrastructure, and creeping outwards into the arid desolation of purple sand.

Unofficially named Colluvis, it was hardly more than a fragmented shanty-town, though it supported an economy built largely on the demands, debris and secrets of the respectable Company-affiliated businesses that occupied the main settlement. As is the nature of such places, it sheltered those who chose – or were driven – to earn a living in unconventional ways, those who preferred, for one reason or another, not to be found, and those who simply did not have the resources to escape.

Arcturus Dark felt more at home in the easy-going anonymity of Colluvis than in the clean formality found in the centre of the port where the Company offices were located, but it was to one of the latter that he made his way in gloomy resignation along one of the raised walkways that criss-crossed the complex of the administrative district. At the bottom of a flight of steps leading to the glossy plastiglas doors of a new-looking structure built of pale green polycrete blocks, he paused and retied his headscarf. The fine, mineral-floss fabric was very effective at filtering the solar radiation that caused the brain abscesses so common among intergalactic travellers, but the slippery textile was difficult to knot. He had at times considered changing to a protective headband of the kind more popular among the mercenary community; but he liked his headscarf. A girlfriend had once told him it made him look like a buccaneer. Arcturus had had no idea what a buccaneer was, but he liked the sound of it, and though the girlfriend was long-forgotten, the headscarf had stayed. In addition, it meant his crew could recognise him in a close fight; a detail which had probably saved his life more than once.

The atrium of the Company’s primary executive headquarters was spare and clean. The impermeable white walls and floor had a soft sheen and the super-efficient air-conditioning hummed busily, filtering all traces of the omnipresent pink dust from the internal atmosphere. He allowed himself some deep, cleansing breaths and made his way to the reception console where he typed his name and request on to the screen and stuck his thumb into the recess provided for genetic identity verification.

A message appeared on the screen. _Welcome: Dark A._ it said. _Present to_ _Station Commander_. _Level 11. Room no. 10001_. Arcturus made his way to the elevator.

When Arcturus entered room number seventeen on the third level, an expression of suffering crossed the face of the distinguished, immaculately turned out Station Commander who waited behind a highly polished desk. The man’s countenance smoothed once again into practiced impassivity.

Arcturus gave a well-rehearsed smile that he considered had the right balance of pleasure, regret and optimism, and held out his hand. “Dad!”

“Don’t call me that!” hissed Station Commander Horatio Dark, looking around furtively, even though there was no one else in the room.

“Sorry, Dad! I mean Commander.” 

The older man’s restraint slipped out of control and his nostrils flared in fury. “You’ve smashed up another bloody ship! You blithering idiot. The damn Company can’t afford these sorts of losses!”

Arcturus was hurt; and in any case, knew that the Company could very well afford an occasional loss of this sort. “But it wasn’t my fault!” he protested. Knowing his timing was probably off, he continued hopefully, “Can I have another ship? Please, Da – Commander? I’m damn good, you know I am. I’ve just been unlucky.”

“Unlucky? How many bloody times can you be unlucky without it being regarded as sheer carelessness?” Commander Dark viewed his errant son with something approaching desperation and sighed in defeat. “As it happens, there might be a suitable vessel for you. It’s being assessed and serviced now. Come and see me tomorrow.”

A great weight lifted from Arcturus’s shoulders. “Oh, thanks Dad!”

“Don’t call me that!”

“Sorry, Commander. That’s great. You won’t regret it!”

“I’d better not,” muttered Commander Dark, with a distinct air of pessimism.

Arcturus fidgeted. He felt that his father was expecting him to take his leave but there was another pressing matter to address.

“Ah Da – Commander. I’m, just – temporarily, you understand – suffering a little, er, pecuniary embarrassment.”

With some anxiety, Arcturus watched the distended vein that was throbbing ominously at Commander Dark’s distinguished temple.

As if compelled against both his will and his better judgement, Commander Dark reached inside his waistcoat and pulled out several plasynth cards. He selected one and held it, with some reluctance, out to his son. In a strained and carefully controlled voice he said, “There are enough credits on here to buy a meal and a bed for the night at the port spotel. Not a bottle of Cantharium and a prostitute at _The End of Time_. I will see you tomorrow at oh-eight-hundred. Clean and sober. And call your mother, she worries about you.  Heaven only knows why.” Commander Dark’s voice held an edge of bitterness. “You could fall into a Vulgann sewage tanker and come out smelling of Terran tea-roses.”

.

As Arcturus headed out of the administrative area and down to the ground level shanty-town where he felt more at ease, the light of the yellow dwarf was rapidly fading as it dropped behind the shadow of the huge gas-planet that was climbing over the horizon, and the cool blue lights that -lined the walkways flickered into life. The night would last for twenty-seven hours before the star reappeared so it would still be dark when he came back next day to take possession of his new ship. His _POL1_ drone beeped unhappily as the power in the solar battery dropped to a critical level. The spare power pack had gone with the shields of the much lamented _Syrene,_ and was presumably even now hurtling at an ever increasing trajectory towards the black hole in the middle of the galaxy, and Arcturus  had neither the money to buy a new one or the facilities to recharge the one it had. It came to a silent rest in the little docking station pocket he wore on his left shoulder.

A boisterous and eclectic group passed by on the other side of the causeway. About half of them were more-or-less humanoid, but all were identifiable by the orange headbands that tapered to a long tail and hung nearly to waist level – for those that had waists – swinging as they walked, trotted or slid, depending on the method of locomotion and number of limbs. Arcturus recognised them. They were the crew of the _Midas_ , fresh from their successful raid on a Tarcitan merchant fleet. The same raid that had seen him ignominiously having to abandon his poor, doomed _Syrene_ and accept a ride back here with them. His own crew, showing a pragmatic but disappointing lack of loyalty, had been content to disperse and throw in their lot with other Company vessels, leaving him to endure his humiliation alone. He recognised his former second-mate who lifted a scaly, three-fingered hand in a salute.

Captain Willie, a tall, dark-skinned human female bringing up the rear of the party, beckoned cheerfully. “Art!” she called over, “come and join us, my friend! We’re going to the _Ragnarok_ – they have a new show tonight. And Saltatrician dancers!”

Arcturus gritted his teeth. Of all the things he hated – and there were a fair few – being called Art was pretty near the top of the list. He bit back his wrath and answered with what he hoped was cheerful insouciance, “Not tonight, Willie, my friend! Gonna get my head down. Taking a new ship tomorrow!”

“Ha!” retorted Captain Willie without rancour. “Advantages of being related to the Management, hey?” She spat into the gutter, and strode on.

Beside himself with jealousy, Arcturus worked out what percentage of the booty the crew of the _Midas_ would have taken from the raid. Total salvage worth about twelve million talents, he estimated, including the ships taken. Twenty-five percent to the Company. The remaining seventy-five percent divided between the three Company ships – that should have been four if his own misjudged decision to take out a small outrider had not gone so disastrously and inexplicably wrong. Forty percent of each share to the captains. The rest divided equally among the crews. That would be . . . about 180,000 talents for each crew member; easily enough to live on for a year. And well over two million each to Captain Willie of the _Midas_ , Captain Jul of the _Billy Ruffian_ , and Captain Marok of the _Empress_. Enough to buy a comfortable little holding somewhere nice on Tranquillius or Lepidor, where the climate was temperate and the native fauna mostly herbivorous and non-poisonous.

Arcturus wanted to get very, very intoxicated, and forget.

* * *

 


End file.
